


I, Purifier

by AdunToridas



Category: StarCraft (Video Games)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Death, M/M, POV Alternating, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:33:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26234938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdunToridas/pseuds/AdunToridas
Summary: The Purifiers, as a people, are at a crossroad. Each must choose their own destiny, their own future, and their own identity. Some find themselves continuations of who they once were, taking confort in being the same Protoss they were scanned from, while others seek to forge themselves a unique name, a unique life seperate from the one recorded in their memorybanks.A short look at the answers a few of them find to the most pressing question that weighs on their people: Who are they?
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	I, Purifier

Cipion is not a templar name, nor one the Nerazim would take, and- although Khashilar wasn't entirely certain- he doubted it was something the Tal'darim would claim either. No, Cipion was distinctly the name of a Purifier- a mangling of Khalani words from several different dialects twisted into some kind of phrase or idiom, something that held meaning and symbolism truly only understood by the being who had chosen it as their new name. As their future.

An interesting future indeed, Khashilar mused as his cybernetic student kneeled before him, but not one that had been without struggles.

There had been murmurs of disapproval amongst the older Nerazim as Khalai had been inducted into the teachings of the void- murmurs quietened by the Avenger Order's prompt vacation of shakuras in a rather foolish attempt to retake aiur on their own, and their later crucial assistance to the free Daelaam forces during the End War. Tal'darim defectors requested to be taught the ways Nerazim similarly caused disquiet amongst the elders, those set in their ways and unhappy with the perceived attacks on their culture, but their promise was hard to deny- generations of terrazine exposure had granted them a connection to the void far beyond anything the Nerazim had ever seen. 

Purifiers requesting tutorage, however, had caused the largest uproar- allowing those who were not  _ only  _ symbols of the Conclave's moral bankruptcy, but those who were  _ lies incarnate _ , insight into the sacred rituals of the dark templar? To call one brother? It was unthinkable to the old masters of the void, the leaders of the clans, and had even caused an unspoken yet unmistakable unease within the forward thinking Matriarch herself. Many of even the younger mentors had been inclined to agree- a machine without a soul could barely even hope to tap into the void, let alone be expected to master it.

Khashilar, however, was old enough to know better and strong enough in his convictions to openly disagree. He had been a young man when the first rogues had fled aiur, under the cover of Adun's sacrifice. He was as old enough to have lived a life on aiur before his people's exile, and lived long enough to have returned to his battered home afterwards. The words his people used, their disdain, stung him in a place deep within his ancient mind, a place that had not felt such pain, such prejudice, for a millennium.

His words, his pleas, held no weight beyond the age behind them, though. Unlike many of his peers, he was no great hero, no leader of his people, no patriarch of a great lineage. He had borne no heirs, taken no family, and dedicated himself only to teaching the ways of the void as he understood them. As such, his rebellion against the misplaced prejudice of his kin took the only form it could.

He chose to teach.

As his pupil meditated before him, Khalishar could scarcely deny that Cipion had taken to his training rather well. Not as well as a Nerazim student would have, and the rate of his progress was worryingly slow, but it was consistent, there was a strong will to learn that carried through every hour of meditation, every tedious session of study, and every failure. More than could be said for some of the young Nerazim he’d had the displeasure of trying to tutor.

Looking upon him, it was easier than the old Nerazim had initially thought to see past the mechanical outer layers, and into the personality within. Of course, it helped that his sentinel shell had been modified heavily from the baseline model, partly to accommodate the stresses that training with the void places on a vessel- flesh or otherwise. 

Cipion’s form resembled the versions built in recent years to emulate the battlefield prowess of the Nerazim, a slender body without the pure armored bulk most mass produced combat shells possessed, and a face that resembled that of a living Protoss much more than the mockery of their form that was slapped on to the head of most Purifier constructs. It was a true face, plating so painstakingly constructed to emulate the Protoss form that it was almost striking- attached to a body custom built to, as best Khalishar had gleamed, broadcast his student’s intentions to all those that would set eyes upon him. A statement of personhood, forged from adanium and worn proudly, defiantly, against those that would argue otherwise.

Still, a feat of Cybros' most advanced engineering, an overclocked solarite core, and a life-like face simply couldn't channel the void as the flesh and blood of a protoss could. This combined with his slow march of his progress certainly made the Nerazim elder worried, not of Cipion’s potential- his faith remained unbroken- but of his own ability to see his student’s growth to completion.

The reality was, Khalishar’s convictions on the personhood of the purifiers couldn't overrule the fact that his life was close to its end. His brittle bones, the mottled patterns upon his faded lilac skin, and his gnarled, hunched spine was a testament to that- one that was clear to any Protoss that looked upon him. The progressively loosening grip on his psionics, the lapses in his millennium honed skills, were an even more stark warning of this eventuality, and one that grew ever more dangerous with each slip. 

For a protoss, death by age was not a sudden, private, process- but one that could be felt for decades by all around them, a grim and slow reminder that the length of his kindred's lives were not always a blessing, but could just often be a curse. Perhaps this sword of damocles hanging above his head would have made the idea of training yet another student too much for him to bear in any other circumstance. 

Perhaps, if he hadn't been aware of who that student was- or rather, who he had been.

* * *

Iaanu sighed deeply at the protoss standing in front of him, completely detached from the impassioned speech being broadcast into his mind. It was always this way. The very moment the two of them had any time alone together, his partner always would break out into these elaborate and wild rants. Brief shimmers of phrases caught his attention between the mess of words being thrown at him- ‘freedom’, ‘the right to choose’- but frankly he cared very little for the ideology that fuelled the passion being thrown at him. 

He deeply cared for the speaker, of course, he wouldn't be here listening to what was tantamount to an impassioned plea for treason if he didn't, but a Templar as young and full of vigour as Iaanu was simply didn't have the desire to lean into such fringe ideas. The Khala bound them all together, gave them all a place and guided their blades and minds as if one, it allowed them to communicate- truly communicate their rawest emotion and feeling, their love, not this simple exchange of words he’d been reduced to hearing, interpreting meaning from- the idea of pulling away from its warm embrace seemed nothing but alien to him, even as the lilac protoss before him so fervently spoke of it.

Vaguely aware that his senses had stopped being assaulted by the primitive mode of communication he was subjected to for these heretical lectures, and slightly more aware that this almost certainly meant he'd had a question posed to him- rather than the rant being cut mercifully short for once- the young Templar shot back a weak "I agree". The fallback response never failed as appeasement, he mused with the tiniest hint of contentment. "Never" had exceptions quite often, he supposed, but it was better than actually having to listen to an aeon's worth of grandstanding. As the long winded reply began, however, Iaanu could do little more than let out another sigh. Internally, of course. If this degenerative mode of speech had any benefits, the ability to hide is boredom was certainly one of them.

" _ Excellent! I knew I would get through to you eventually! Many of us met together last moonrise to discuss things of this nature, and I must say that it was quite enlightening. You should accompany to the next one, we plan to- _ " Iaanu's eyes shot wide and his mind snapped to attention, the words coming like a strike to the face. He’d been content to humor the strange ideas of a young templar, but he’d had no inkling it’d gone this far, that he’d been blind to it.

_ "Khashilar, you met with them? The rogues? My will is enough to tolerate you discussing their ideas, but- they are criminals! Heretics! Savages- you have said they mutilate themselves! What would become of you if they turned on you? What would become of you if you were found with them?" _

Iaanu’s furious outburst cuts entirely through the enthusiasm of the other templar, Khalishar’s form recoiling from the sudden shift in demeanor. More than that, it’s the brief spark of genuine anger through the khala he still ever so tentatively remains tuned in to that shocks him, burns hot as if it was his own, yet still remains directed upon himself. The backlash is immediate, Iaanu’s guilt emanating through the shared mental link, unbridled remorse and lingering hot anger flowing as Khalishar pulls away in mind and body.

_ "I- You are my Khas'lor, Khalishar. We are fated souls, and you know I wish nothing but your safety. I- I simply cannot allow you to consort with these deniers of the khala any longer. I understand you can be…. free spirited. I have understood this since our fated meeting, and it is something I cherish of you.” _

There’s a pregnant pause that fills the air between them, Iaanu’s disjointed speech coming twofold, the mental projection of guilt, love and fear mixing with the spoken word into a mangled but deeply raw expression of himself in that moment.

_ “Just as you understood the importance of my duties to the conclave and their dictates, their law. I can abide by the words of heresy you whisper to me in our private moments of intimacy, but we are Templar- the Khala is our strength and I will not allow you to be harmed foolishly straying from it's light. Foolishly straying from the light which we share." _

Iaanu leaned back, the unconsciously assumed stance of combat, of aggression, melting away as the heat of the moment passed. He was, at least, content that he had been both more than reasonable and offered an appealing compromise. 

He allowed his cocktail of emotions to flow between them- love, concern, content, with the smallest tinge of annoyance. The annoyance hadn't been intentional, of course, but he had found it was always useful to communicate whenever the two were having a disagreement.

The recoiled protoss standing across from him took several moments to reply, while the khala hung empty between them, betraying no hint of his feelings. If Iaanu had been able to read the emotions his eyes conveyed, however- had he cared to listen, to learn as Khalishar had- he may have seen the progression of the turmoil in his other half- Sadness, resolution, conviction.

As if on cue, the moment Iaanu considered breaking the silence, Khashilar spoke.

_ "You… are correct. I have put myself in danger, and worse yet I have put you and your station at risk, for the words of radicals. For their ideas. I am sorry I have troubled you this way." _ Khashilar leaned in to the other protoss, touching their crested foreheads together in an affectionate gesture, a physicality emphasizing his words.

An act of intimacy, one they had often shared outside of their times of disagreement, but Iaanu could scarcely help but feel a certain weight to the closeness they held now, one that he had not felt before. As the nagging feeling grew, and the closeness lingered, he began to feel the bubbles of unease rise themselves to the surface of his psyche.

Suddenly through the khala, as if on cue, Iaanu felt a flush of emotion. Joy, love, and raw affection- all the deep feelings the two shared for one another conjoined in a conflicting and wonderful mixture that filled both minds, the ultimate act of devotion- to share all that you are with another, to allow the borders between you to blur, melt away. Iaanu closed his eyes, basking in the gentle waves of shared emotion, mutual adoration, that swept away his misgivings and malcontent.

And then, with a single pained grunt, it was gone.

Instantly, Iaanu was aware something was very wrong, even beyond the abrupt end to their tender connection. His eyes slowly crept open, as a single chilling thought took hold of his mind, a creeping fear beyond fears. As his concerned gaze met the dull, shining emeralds of his partner, his suspicions were confirmed, and he was scared to the very core of his being. Far more than he had ever felt before on the battlefield, and far more than he ever would again.

In front of him stood Khashilar, severed nerve cord in one hand and spluttering psi-blade emanating from the other. Shocked, violently appalled, and his mind racing with questions, feelings and words, overloading his ability to even truly process what was before him- Iaanu could do nothing but stand and stare. In a strained voice that conveyed no emotion, that could convey no emotion with no khala behind it, Khashilar spoke softly.

_ "I hope you will forgive me." _

Before any more words could be exchanged, before anything could even hope to stop him, Khashilar was gone. Gone from the room, gone from the Khala and gone from the only one who would ever hold his trio of hearts.


End file.
